Rain on the Dead (14 page)

Tod leaned down and saw only carnage, Fergus Tully’s devastated face, Frank Bell calm and somehow detached from the blood soaking into his clothes at the back of his neck.

“You should have got rid of Tully years ago. I told you that when we were in the Maze,” Tod said to him.

“So you did. Too late now. Myra won’t be pleased.” Bell coughed, and a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

“I can live with that.”

“One question. Were you expecting Dillon and company to turn up?” Bell croaked.

“Dillon phoned me and said they’d be coming, but didn’t say when. I told the Master and we quarreled, but he knew they intended to come sometime.”

“You were a total surprise to us. He just told me he wanted us to take out you and Hannah,” Bell said. “Didn’t mention Dillon at all.”

But Tod was coldly angry. “Last time you had a go at the Flynns, you killed my brother and his wife and crippled my niece. Now you tell me she was to be targeted again—I was going to put a bullet in your head to ease your going, but not now.”

The engine of the Jeep was still on. Tod opened the door, reached over Bell to release the hand brake, and Bell slipped a bloody hand around his neck, holding on fast as the vehicle started to move. Tod tried to kick free in vain, and the front wheels scattered an avalanche of stones over the edge of granite at the bottom of the slope, taking the Jeep with it into the bog. The amazing thing was how quickly it disappeared.

Billy ran forward, too late, Hannah screamed “No!” and fought to control her horse, and the Land Rover turned off the track toward them. Dillon and Kelly, Harry and Meg, got out and hurried to meet them. Sara and Hannah stayed mounted, calm now, but grave and subdued by the horror of it.

Meg reached up to Hannah to touch hands. “What’s happened?”

“Ask Billy. We’ll see you back at the Place.” Hannah put her heels into Fancy and galloped away, and Sara went after her.

Meg appeared dazed, frowning in bewilderment. “What is it, I don’t understand. Where’s Tod?”

So Billy told her.

—

If there was one thing Dillon and his cousin had in common from youth, it was a County Down accent. It was this that he intended to use, as everybody gathered in the parlor a couple of hours later and he announced that he meant to contact the Master using the special mobile given to Tod for that purpose.

“He may have cut the line, as it were,” Dillon said. “But chances are he hasn’t quite yet, out of curiosity. I’ll do the talking, but I’ll put it on speaker so you can hear everything.”

He made the call, and within seconds the Master’s voice boomed out. “I was beginning to think you’d gone the way of all flesh, Mr. Flynn.”

“No, but I
am
the bearer of bad news,” Dillon told him, the actor in him taking over, his Down accent very pronounced. “Frank Bell and Tully came to a particularly unfortunate finish, swallowed up by the Bog of Salam. As it’s never been known to reject anything, that’s an end to them.”

“The end of nothing, Mr. Flynn,” the Master replied. “To ally yourself with Charles Ferguson and his people is a grave error on your part. They are declared enemies of al-Qaeda, have done great harm to our organization.”

“I’m sure General Ferguson will be delighted to hear that,” Dillon said.

“But not so pleased when the news of Tully’s murder reaches the ears of his daughter. Myra is a formidable lady, as you’ll find out.”

Harry could not contain himself “What a load of bollocks. The only big thing about Myra is her mouth. A right little tin-pot dictator. I could go back on the streets tomorrow and walk all over her.”

“Let him rant and rave,” the Master said. “London can be a dangerous place for female students even at the best of times, but particularly for one so handicapped.”

It was Sara who spoke now. “If you had seen the way she handled herself with the two thugs you sent to murder her, you would not waste your time making stupid threats. When I return to London, she goes with me.”

Hannah’s angry smile said it all. “You can go to hell, Master-whoever-you-are.”

The Master’s voice stayed calm. “Not me, Hannah, but you and all your friends.”

The phone died as he departed, and there was only silence as if no one knew what to make of what had happened. It was Dillon who said, “So there we are. Tod is a threat for him, played by me, of course. But what are you suggesting, Sara?”

“Hannah needs to go to London as soon as possible, to make ready for her new life, and she’ll need a safe and secure place, with
people who will make her welfare a priority. I think I have just the one.”

Dillon was already smiling. “Highfield Court, is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Absolutely,” Sara said, “If a nice Catholic Irish girl can adjust to a Sephardic Jewish establishment. It’s where I live when I’m in London, Hannah, with my grandfather, Rabbi Nathan Gideon, and our housekeeper, Mrs. Sadie Cohen. An early-Victorian house with a music room.”

“You mean with a piano?” She was almost pleading. “Oh, say that there is, Sara.”

“All right, but not just any old piano. You’ll have to wait and see. Your induction week at college starts on September fifteenth. That gives you four clear weeks at Highfield to settle in and prepare.”

Meg seemed uncertain and worried about the whole thing, but Hannah immediately made it clear that it was what she wanted. “It takes care of all the problems, Aunt Meg. I owe it to Uncle Tod, you must see that. It would be a waste not to, after what happened to him.”

“The Gulfstream could fly us back to Farley in the early evening,” Dillon said. “You can stuff as many of your personal belongings in it as you like.”

Kelly cut in. “It solves too many problems to say no, Aunt Meg. We’ve four mares in foal. We’ll have our hands full with the stud, and you can go and visit once she’s settled in. No one will query Tod’s absence. God rest him, he was away more than he was here for years.”

Meg nodded sadly. “Well, let’s get you packed,” she said to
Hannah, and they went out together at once, and Kelly followed to take care of chores in the stables.

The Salters, Dillon, and Sara were left together, and Harry smiled. “It’s certainly been a lively day out. That Master’s a right bastard, I must say. He really needs sorting.”

“Easier said than done,” Billy told him. “She’s quite a girl, Hannah. Is Ferguson going to be okay about you having her on board, Sara?”

“He’ll have to be,” she said. “I’ll just take a walk outside and have a word with my grandfather and Sadie and warn them to expect us, then I’ll speak to Roper. I’ll leave you to call Lacey at Kilmartin to arrange our departure, Sean.”

—

Rabbi Nathan Gideon was the kindest of men by nature, and accepted the prospect of his world being turned upside down with his usual equanimity. Sadie, while admitting that Tony Doyle had been a real asset about the house, warmed to the idea of taking Hannah in after Sara gave her a brief account of what to expect, and then called Roper.

After an account of the day’s events, he was astonished. “Honestly, Sara, when you lot get stuck-in these days, you don’t take prisoners.”

“I can’t see the point, Giles,” she said. “The new rules are that there are no rules any longer. Bullet in your target’s back on a dark and rainy night, then call Mr. Teague with his van and body bags and the crematorium waiting. Play dirty seems to be the name of the game.”

“And are we winning?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ve had a hard day, which included shooting Fergus Tully in the face, then watching him and his associate get swallowed by an Irish bog and taking a good man with them. The prospect of facing Ferguson with an account of the day’s events is beyond me. I’ll leave it to you, but when you’ve explained Hannah’s presence to him, tell him one thing is a given. Staff Sergeant Tony Doyle stays on in the house as an armed guard and chauffeur.”

She was stressed and weary, Roper could sense it. “Well, why didn’t I think of that! Lie back and enjoy the flight. I’ll see you soon,” and he switched off.

—

In her bedroom at the Sash, Myra Tully was dressing for her usual evening appearance, splendid in exotic underwear, easing a dress of scarlet oyster satin over her head, when Terry entered, wearing a well-tailored black suit, a white shirt, and a Guards tie. There was a glass of champagne on the tray he carried, and he put it down.

“You didn’t knock, did you? Honestly, Terry, you’re hopeless. Go and make sure there’s no rubbish in the saloon bar, good dressers only.”

He withdrew without a word and she reached for the champagne, drank half of it inelegantly, and was starting to touch up her makeup when her mobile sounded.

She turned it on and said, “Myra Tully. Who the hell is this?”

“This is the Master speaking. You’re aware, I’m sure, that I’ve been dealing with your father, Myra?”

His use of her Christian name offended her, and she bridled.
“Well, you’re bleeding familiar for a start. Anyway, how’s my da getting on?”

“Not too well.” He was deliberately goading her. “Like the Scarlet Pimpernel in the French Revolution. Is he in Heaven or is he in Hell?”

“What are you trying to say?” she demanded hoarsely.

“That your father and his good friend Frank Bell are dead. It was the work of the Flynn family and Charles Ferguson’s people—Sean Dillon, Harry and Billy Salter, Captain Sara Gideon.”

She had to struggle to speak. “It can’t be true. How could you know?”

“Don’t be silly, Myra, it’s all out there.”

“Dillon,” she croaked. “And Ferguson.” Her voice rose. “I’ll have them all, if it’s the last thing I do on this earth.”

“Excellent,” the Master said. “I’ll go now, but we’ll speak again. And get one thing clear—if you want revenge, don’t make a move unless I tell you to.”

She threw her phone at the wall, the door burst open, and Terry entered. “Myra, what is it?” he demanded.

She pushed him away from her. “He’s dead, my da’s dead, and it’s all Charles Ferguson’s fault. I’ll have his eyes before I’m through,” and she fell on the bed, sobbing
bitterly.

The helicopter from Nantucket that had dropped off Ferguson and his people in New York continued its flight to Washington, landing in a reserved area of the airport, where Jake Cazalet found Blake Johnson waiting with a driver and limousine. During Cazalet’s two terms at the White House, Blake had served him well and had become a loyal friend.

“Great to see you in one piece,” Blake said as they shook hands.

“Thanks to the Prime Minister’s private army,” Cazalet told him. “Where are we going?”

“We’ve booked you into a suite at the Hay-Adams. You like it there, don’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Cazalet said. “Frankly, I was worried he might have decided to have me stay at the White House, so I’m glad he hasn’t. After all, we were never bosom buddies.”

“Well, I can’t think of the right answer to that,” Blake said.

“Forget it, I don’t want to embarrass you. Your job is to serve the President, which you did brilliantly for me, and now you do it for
him. So the situation makes you feel uncomfortable. What’s so surprising? After all, we don’t even vote for the same party.”

Blake laughed. “Well, I suppose that might explain it.”

They pulled up at the hotel entrance, the driver got out to pass the luggage to the doorman, and Cazalet turned, smiling.

“So I take it I’m not due to see him for dinner tonight?”

“He said he wanted to give you time to settle in.”

“That’s considerate of him, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He scrambled out of the Mercedes and turned, leaning down. “Is he still taking the CIA line over the Nantucket affair?”

Blake looked strangely helpless. “What do you want me to say?”

“Not a thing, old friend, I’ll handle it. See you later.”

He went up the steps and the doorman saluted him. “Great to see you again, Captain.”

Cazalet patted his shoulder. “You’re still here, George. You must be seventy if you’re a day.”

“Just don’t tell anyone, Mr. President. I need the job.”

“I won’t let you down,” Cazalet said. “We old Vietnam vets have got to stick together,” and he walked inside to where the hotel manager waited.